Everybody stages The Crucible, but not everyone finds new meaning there.

High schools, colleges, community theaters - they're all drawn to the large cast, the message and the relatively family-friendly nature of what is an exceedingly dark story: a depiction of the Salem witch trials as an allegory for (despite playwright Arthur Miller's protestations to the contrary) the government's communist hunt of the late '40s and early '50s.

That theme is still there, but what emerges from A. Lee Massaro's energized direction is another one, that of the women in the story and in the world. Because it is, after all, the females of The Crucible who set the events in motion and are, ultimately, its victims.

The devil in plain dress here is Abigail Williams, a teen who, in Jessica Austgen's bewitching performance, is the 17th-century answer to Gossip Girl's Blair Waldorf. She knows just when to present her sweetness to the men who have power over her but is capable of great wickedness behind their backs. It's she who has led girls dancing naked in the woods, sparking the bonfire of the vanities that is the execution of dozens of women by the government, abetted by the church.

Abigail isn't just a manipulator; she is, as portrayed here, a harlot who seduced the upright, married John Proctor and now connives to get his wife out of the picture. Under Massaro's direction, it's clear that Abigail is also a girl. The lust between her and Proctor is real, but she carries more of the judgment than he does until his wife, Elizabeth, points out that John's body wrote checks he wasn't willing to cash.

At the same time, the odd behaviors that the adult men describe in girls are fairly recognizable to anyone who's seen a daughter enter adolescence. It's that growing sexuality that's most equated with the devil.

At Abigail's side is Mary Warren (think Nelly Yuki if this is Gossip Girl), the servant who replaced her in the Proctor home and is at first caught up with her power on the jury and then torn between what's right and fear of death. Misha Johnson gives her a tremulous plainness, a simple girl far out of her moral or intellectual depth.

The story's spine belongs to the Proctors, who in the work of Gene Gillette and C. Kelly Leo display all the complexities of a marriage. He's the charismatic picture of the pioneer, who just wants to do his work and be left in peace. Gillette (with Massaro) keeps Proctor from being too much of a hero; it's impossible to ignore the physical threat he conveys to all the women around him. He may be just, but only in a man's world.

Leo keeps a quiet anger about her, deeply wounded by her husband's infidelity and incapable of forgiveness. Their final scene together is one not only of reconciliation but of realization, and it's fitting that hers is the final face we see.

Among its many themes is that of an immature society struggling to make its own order. Here the state has taken on the work of the church, led by local minister Parris, a weak, greedy and somewhat desperate man in Anthony Powell's fine performance. Parris calls on the visiting Rev. Hale, played by Erik Tieze as a somewhat arrogant clergyman who realizes too late the consequences of so much God- (or, perhaps, female-) fearing.

All the elements are in place here, including a jangling set design by Brian Mallgrave marked by a violently angled proscenium and a background of knotted ropes suggesting nooses. Steve Stevens' sound design unites the scenes and carries the terror of the story, opening with a haunting girl's voice singing from Psalm 139: "Then I with perfect hatred hate. I count them as my foes."

Here's a horror story to really keep you up at night.

The Crucible

* Grade: A

* When and where: through March 8 at the Arvada Center, 6901 Wadsworth Blvd.

* Cost: $30 and up

* Information: 720-898-7200